


Two Killers in The House

by withinmelove



Category: Hannibal (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crossover, Fluff, Hannibal is Hannibal, Jealous Sherlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 04:04:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8086456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withinmelove/pseuds/withinmelove
Summary: Hannibal and Will move into the basement flat of 221B Baker street after recovering from their swan dive off the cliff to make a new, quiet life for themselves.John may be a little in love with Will, Sherlock finds he can feel the emotion jealousy just fine, and Hannibal makes friends with Moriarty.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came about when the brilliant M-oarts proposed a Hannibal Big Bang. This is the first BB out of three I've managed to successfully participate in! I'm pleased to present this crossover because there definitely needs to be more Hannibal skulking around in the world of Sherlock.
> 
> Here is the art that M-oarts did for me! Aah look at Sherlock's hilarious grumpy face! https://65.media.tumblr.com/b5e01687a42867bd4dc080d30f928e20/tumblr_odvxe23Gd51ukexyjo1_1280.jpg

It’s just turning to autumn when the foreign couple move in. John and Sherlock are out on an extended case halfway across the country when they arrive. John wouldn’t have noticed at all if Mrs. Hudson hadn’t said something. Sherlock, of course, would already have known upon stepping into the foyer. It’s like him not to feel the need to inform John of such trivial matters. 

“Oh John, Sherlock, we’ve got a surprise! A couple rented out the basement flat!” exclaims Mrs. Hudson as she comes in the door carrying a serving tray of tea and lunch. As many times as she reminds them she isn’t their housekeeper, she does seem to enjoy the martyrdom of it. 

Sherlock doesn’t bother to look away from the reality show he’s watching, so John, out of politeness and curiosity, asks after this exciting couple. Really he can’t recall her being so over the moon other than when she had first praised Sherlock on John’s move-in day. A bit of sweetness to flavor the bitter pill. Perhaps it was the same with these new people.

“Well, they’re a married pair for one,” Mrs. Hudson answers coyly.

“We get it, dear lady,” Sherlock interrupts, eyes never straying from the screen, “John, she means they’re gay and like us living together in domestic bliss.” 

John sighs and takes a bite of his grilled cheese sandwich. If only that was actually true. He shouldn’t be snappy, but damn it it’s hard not to be when reminded of what you don’t have. Mrs. Hudson’s unbothered by Sherlock’s intrusion on her news; she’s so excited over new people. 

“Never you mind Sherlock, you should _see_ these two gentlemen! The young one is named Will, he’s so scruffy but his hair is as curly as yours. He keeps it just as untidy too.” 

The ill-disguised laughter coughed into his cup has Sherlock giving John an unimpressed look. 

“What of his husband? Surely you saw him as well as you hustled them into their new flat?” Sherlock prods. The dear woman puts on a serious face now, getting down to business with her gossip. 

“Well now, the husband is a good bit older then Will. It’s almost shameful really, but what a gentleman he was!” She looks almost as scandalized as if Sherlock announced he was cutting all his hair off. John blinks in surprise.

“What’s his name?” John asks. She regards him with confusion for a second before remembering what she was saying. 

“Oh, it’s really quite strange, it’s _Hannibal_ , but you know, it suits him. Oh, and he has such manners! Dressed to the nines. Will told me he’s a professional pianist.” 

It is rather an odd name.

\---

Besides Mrs. Hudson’s announcement, John rather forgets about the new tenants. They’re unobtrusive and quiet, so it’s easy not to think about them. Up until yesterday, he hadn’t seen either one until he ran into the younger one of the two. 

He’s calling over his shoulder to Sherlock as he opens the foyer door, right as the tenant is struggling to find his keys, laden down with groceries, causing them to body-slam into each other. 

“Oh! I’m sorry, so sorry!” John exclaims grasping at the man’s forearms to keep him from toppling backwards off the doorstep. 

“S’alright, thank you,” he mumbles, shifting the straps of the plastic bags on his arms. John’s taken aback at how handsome he is now that he can have a proper look. Mrs. Hudson was right: he has curls that likely could only be tamed by product; much like Sherlock’s unruly ones. The thought has him inwardly smiling. 

“Of - of course. Do you need any help? I’m John, by the way, your upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Hudson probably already told you about us.” 

Whether it’s the mention of their landlady or the offer for help, he smiles in response. There’s no doubt in John’s mind this man could charm anyone given half the chance and less reticence. Mrs. Hudson had rightfully fluttered on about this one. He’s curious about his husband. 

“I’ve got it, and I’m Will.” 

The next day there come at noon two firm knocks on the door. John - who’s reading in his chair - is surprised to see Sherlock, from his lying-down position on the couch, actually look over at the door. It’s more interest than he usually ever shows someone who isn’t dead. Of course, that doesn’t mean he’ll rouse himself with John around. He sighs through his nose as he smacks his book down onto the end table. For all the good that does, it does makes him feel better. 

What he isn’t prepared for is Will and his husband _\- Hannibal isn’t it -_ at their door. He has high cheekbones with eyes that are a bit sunken. John blinks in surprise before remembering his manners; Sherlock’s lack of social etiquette seems to be catching.

“Uh, hello! What brings you two over?” 

Will and Hannibal offer twin polite smiles, the latter his outstretched hand as well. 

“Will told me you two had a run-in yesterday. He said it was the perfect opportunity to invite you over for dinner tomorrow if you’re available.” 

John shakes his hand, and he’s got to admit he can see now why Mrs. Hudson was so ruffled. Hannibal has a good bit of seniority on Will, though he’s still quite handsome in his tailored suit. The parentheses of age around his mouth are deeply etched into his skin. 

Hannibal’s gaze finds Sherlock over John’s shoulder, who’s of course still lying on the couch, back turned, feigning disinterest. “Of course, your husband is invited as well.” 

John doesn’t bother to deny what they are or aren’t. What does it matter? Sherlock doesn’t care and no one believes John anyways. Instead he nods. “We’d be glad to come over. What time would best for you? I can grab the drinks.”

It’s here Will shakes his head with a smile. Such neat lips, stubbled jaw perfectly groomed. John’s certain he’s never going to get used to what that does to him. “Thank you John, but Hannibal can manage. He’s a snob about his food and drink.” 

Hannibal raises his eyebrows at the comment. This is all so polite and friendly. John can’t recall a time when pleasant, neighborly chatting was an event in his life. The war and Sherlock have managed to erase most of his memories of “normal” day-to-day niceties. It almost feels like this conversation, these two men, are a hoax, as if Mycroft should be striding up the stairs decrying these two as monsters, Sherlock in the living room racing against time to think of their escape. 

For a second the alternative scene is laid over top this one. 

Blood on the floor - so much blood. Sherlock a fallen rag doll on the couch, mouth and eyes wide open in shock, a leaking wound like a scarf trailing from his throat to the floor. Hannibal with a linoleum knife in hand, his face never more reptilian than now with its empty expression and hooded eyes and Will - Will looking down at John on the soaked floor. He looks as if he’s never experienced such regret, as if it’s somehow John’s fault for their deaths. 

A blink and he’s back. No blood, or dead Sherlock or sad-eyed Will. Just him and Hannibal waiting politely for John to answer their invitation. 

“Of course we’d love to! Would you like to come inside for some tea? Or - well, coffee?” God, hopefully Sherlock doesn’t have any more body parts in the fridge right now, but Hannibal shakes his head.

“Thank you, but Will and I are on our way out.” 

John nods. “Well thank you Hannibal, Will - we look forward to seeing you.” 

Again the twin smiles and answering farewells before they leave. He’s just closed the door when Sherlock speaks up still curled up on his side.

“They’re hiding something dangerous John, can’t you see that?” 

John puts his hands on his hips. “What about them makes you say that?”

“ _Everything_.” Sherlock hisses as he springs upright, looking slightly mad with his flattened hair on one side and eyes wide. “First they move in while we’re away on a case. Mrs. Hudson has no other tenants than us so no one to remark upon their sudden appearance. They size everything up around them. They are wolves creeping around in sheep’s clothes. So quiet that the sheep never notice them.” 

John rolls his eyes. “Sherlock, just leave it. I’d like us to have normal neighbors for once.” 

\--

It’s become a comfortable routine, making meals together. In the aftermath of their swan dive over the cliff, there has been little time for cooking. 

Will can’t say he was all that shocked when he awoke in a hospital bed. Life seems unwilling to let either of them go that easily. Later on, it comes to him that it must’ve been Chiyoh who rescued them. Perhaps she had been dissatisfied with their ending. Luck was on her side then; they lived despite the critical wounds they sustained. Hannibal’s money bought them a discreet month-and-a-half hospital stay. It also allowed them to slip away with no fuss. 

Once out, they had set course for England straight away. Plenty of time to discuss where they would go to while they were recovering. Although Hannibal had frightened off Alana and Margot permanently, Will didn’t want to be anywhere in the US where Jack could locate him. He had had enough of that man for a lifetime. 

Settled in at last, Will had joined Hannibal the first second it was clear an elaborate meal was in progress. Likewise, his husband schedules everything but the heaviest preparation of their dinners around Will’s days and evenings at the animal shelter. He makes sure to shower when he comes home and to change into different clothes as well. Although Hannibal hasn’t said anything, Will knows the smell and hair of the dogs can be overpowering, especially for as keen a nose as his husband’s.

“Sherlock got your interest, didn’t he?” Will states as he gathers up the vegetables for tonight’s meal. Hannibal starts the burner to warm the water that will become the broth.

“He knows, or soon will know, what we are. He’s a very clever man, Will.” 

To this Will gives a chuckle of surprise as he washes the vegetables. 

“High praise coming from you. Think we’ll have to kill him and John? I’d hate to do that already; John’s sweet, got a crush on me.” Hannibal glances at Will to find him wearing an amused smirk at getting his attention. 

“No, I believe Sherlock will stay silent on this. He is curious about us, about me. He will know I’ve reformed you. No doubt he will assume your conversion was simple enough.” 

“Sherlock’s curiosity will be the price for his silence.” 

\--

At seven, John fixes his collared shirt one more time, looking himself over. Silly really to be this nervous for a simple dinner with the new neighbors. Granted maybe not so silly when Hannibal dresses on a daily basis as if he’s going to a white glove affair. Movement in his peripheral vision has him turning to see Sherlock, lean and handsome in a mauve shirt and black dress trousers. He admits his gaze does wander downwards for a quick moment when Sherlock bends over his computer to type something in. 

“Having a good look there John?” 

John’s eyes snap up to see Sherlock with an eyebrow raised. A flush rises to his face, but John doesn’t bother to respond. Sherlock is always amused at his expense, so he won’t give the git the satisfaction today. Besides, he seldom takes John’s words or actions seriously, so if he glances at his ass it’s just another thing to be ignored. The thought warms him of how Will would react to such a glance if he was not already married.

Hannibal ushers them in and - my god, is this the same flat as before? John can’t help his wide eyes of shock at the complete transformation. Much of the redecorating must have been done by Hannibal. The furniture’s new, elegant and heavenly to sit on. A glance to Sherlock finds, surprisingly, he seems almost puzzled at the change. 

“Sherlock, this is Will. John, you know my husband already.” 

Hannibal smiles as all three shake hands. 

“Mind helping me set out dinner, Sherlock? Give Hannibal and John a chance to chat,” Will asks, his collared shirt still half undone. John lets himself have only a moment’s glance at his trim waist. 

A second’s hesitation before Sherlock nods and follows after him. John bites his lip; what’s he supposed to talk about? Hannibal is intimidating with his posh outfit and manners. Likely anything he says will make him look like an idiot in comparison. However, before he can do anything, Hannibal’s up and moving to what appears to be a wardrobe, only for it to hold an impressive amount of alcohol instead of clothes. 

“I find a drink helps to ease the tension of first-time conversations.” 

John chuckles, he could say that again. 

“Do you liquor up all of your visitors, Mr. Lecter?” A demure smile as Hannibal pours them both a glass of wine has John laughing. “Well it’s a good plan! I might have to use it myself.” 

“Please call me Hannibal.” 

He settles at the other end of the couch, though turned towards John, leg primly crossed at the knee. John takes a sip of the wine - he usually isn’t a huge fan - to find it quite delicious. 

“So what interested you to come to England? You both have different accents,” asks John, as he sips at the wine. God, this stuff is becoming irresistible. Hannibal himself takes a drink, giving a light smack of the lips. 

“England is interesting with her history, and it was Will who chose to come here. In regards to our accents, Will is from the South, though he didn’t retain his drawl. I was raised in Lithuania and have never found it an interest to give up my accent. A sentimental attachment.” Hannibal shrugs. 

“You and Sherlock?” 

John smiles as he shakes his head. 

“We met through a mutual friend. Both of us needed a flatmate, but no one wants a scarred soldier or vain and brilliant detective as one. Sherlock helped me out of a stagnant period in my life and here I am two years later still putting up with him.” 

The smile of fondness isn’t faked. Sherlock drives him up the wall every day of his life, but John would rather have that then ever go back to the way his life had been before.

-

“John gave me normalcy and brought me out of my self-imposed isolation.” Sherlock glances over at Will as he hands him each china plate to put their dinner on. “Without a doubt, Hannibal did quite the opposite for you.” 

Will looks over at him head cocked, eyebrows raised. 

“What gave you that idea?” 

Really, Will is just making him state the obvious. 

“Why else would you be living in a moldering basement flat like this with a man of Hannibal’s means? It’s clear from the cut and style of both your wardrobes he has money.” 

A smile twitches at Will’s lips and admittedly, for some reason, this is fun. 

“Maybe Hannibal and I have fallen on hard times.” 

Sherlock scoffs at the pathetic excuse. 

“Not likely; how else would you afford rent among other things? You volunteer at the local shelter - obvious by the hair on your clothes and smell - and Hannibal as a paid pianist wouldn’t draw in much often enough.” 

By this point Will seems charmed by Sherlock’s report. Odd really; few people enjoy having themselves analyzed in such a manner. “Invasion of privacy” is what Lestrade had told him. 

“You and Hannibal share the same bloodhound nose, I see. So, tell me, why did Hannibal isolate me? And feel free to think on that. I only just figured it out myself.” 

Will grabs two of the four plates now full of food, heading to the small dining table, perfectly arranged.

Sherlock is quiet as he follows after with the rest of the plates. Why indeed choose Will? It’s clear Hannibal is more than he appears. There is no immediate answer that satisfies him. The same in regards to Will. His husband did not pick him for his skills with dogs. No - Will had to have been molded into what Hannibal wanted. However, it’s clear whatever shape his husband had contorted him into, Will is no longer in it. How the young man has done this, why Hannibal is content to sit quietly and let Will lead, gnaws at him. 

“Sherlock?” 

He blinks to find John’s hand on his shoulder, their hosts looking politely concerned. Right, they’re having dinner. 

“I’m fine John, just thinking,” he answers. 

John doesn’t seem convinced but lets it go. The conversation turns to dinner, and complimenting it. 

\--

“They were nice, don’t you think, Sherlock? Though I don’t know how Will keeps the weight off with food like that.” John murmurs to himself. Sherlock, on the other hand, isn’t pondering Will’s weight, but how best to observe them both. It’s clear they’ll catch on in an instant - most likely they’re just waiting for him to get started. There’s no other choice. Sherlock needs to befriend Hannibal and Will. 

However, what bothers him most is John’s sudden fascination with Will. Granted, he is a safer choice than Hannibal, but still, the crush doesn’t sit well with him. It makes his skin buzz and itch the thought of losing the only person he, Sherlock, can call a best friend to these newcomers. By this time, John’s finished with his evening shower, the floorboards creaking as he moves about his room - he’s getting dressed. Useless to try to watch trash TV or play the violin. Sherlock is up from the couch going into his own room to quickly undress and put on his dressing gown before knocking on John’s partially closed bedroom door. 

“Yeah? Is something wrong Sherlock?” John asks, at once abandoning his pajama top to open the door for him. 

Sherlock offers his hand, which John looks at in confusion. Sherlock can’t help it; he gives an annoyed sigh before grasping John’s hand. However, that isn’t enough, still the buzzing continues under his skin, how insignificant this gesture is in comparison to the affection he keeps carefully in check. So he pulls John over to the bed motioning for him to crawl in. He receives a bewildered look but does as directed. 

“Sherlock, are you sure you’re feeling alright?” 

He doesn’t answer, because to speak would be to admit his silly jealousy, as if he’s a boy with his first serious boyfriend. Eagle eyes always perceiving some made-up glance of flirtation. Instead, he lies down, pressing himself close to John. He hears the sound of John’s throat working as he swallows.

“You know, Sherlock, lying together like this really isn’t what platonic friends do.” 

However, he doesn’t push him out; he simply directs him to turn over as it’s more comfortable. Neither one of them brings up the fact that they end up spooning, and Sherlock doesn’t say the weight of John’s arm over his waist is comforting. John falls asleep soon after. No matter his discomfort he has his bedtime and his thoughts be damned his body puts him to sleep.

Sherlock, meanwhile, barely sleeps. Now with something interesting going on, his brain is positively humming. A puzzle to keep himself preoccupied. 

Without a doubt Hannibal is immaculate but not obsessive. Likely in a profession that called for rigid standards of hygiene. A hospital setting, then. The plates put down just so, the silverware arranged to the perfect etiquette standard. A crumpled napkin left behind by accident by John had gotten a pointed glance, though he had said nothing. Hannibal, with a tongue heavy with elegance like honey and just as thick. The suits give away an obvious appreciation for the finer things in life, the harpsichord in the corner telling of being cultured in the arts. 

Easy enough to see that not long ago he had been dead behind the eyes. The coldness that still radiates from them only softens when gazing upon Will. 

It’s a relief for Sherlock to look at the clock and see that it’s finally six am. John had given him quite the scolding for playing his violin at two am on six different occasions when he had needed to think on a case. John had explained that while he didn’t mind the playing versus Sherlock shooting holes in the wall, when he started at random hours of the night, he said no. So, to keep John quiet and from grumbling about the flat, Sherlock waits until the later morning to play. 

Carefully he squirms himself out from under John, who is a full-body cuddler when asleep, he finds out. If he wasn’t so preoccupied, Sherlock would have enjoyed the solid warmth of John against him more, but there’s no time for that now. He does, however, have a moment’s hesitation before he leans down to press his forehead to John’s, after which he quietly makes his way to the living room. 

A sigh leaves him as Sherlock nestles into the chin rest of his violin. It takes little concentration to work through his memorized pieces, fingers easily remembering for him. In fact, because of his spacing off, he doesn’t hear his accompaniment until John’s gone off to work. It’s in the minute he stops to rosin his bow once more that he hears the notes floating up through the floor. A harpsichord, and there’s no possibility of Will being the player. For one he’s left already, a half-hour before John, and two he doesn’t have the skills needed for these twirling, dancing notes. Hannibal is playing back his own composition to him note for note. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. If the man means to antagonize him he’s going to have to do better than that. But by the end of two hours, Hannibal is _still_ keeping up. Of course it’s little in the way of effort for someone who is trained. Sherlock will not be the first one to quit.

\--

More than anything that has happened, leaving the dogs had been the most difficult. Necessity pushed Will’s decision, but still the loss burns. So he assuages the hurt by volunteering at the local animal shelter. Money is of no consequence to them, though Will treats his attendance at the animal shelter as if he’s being paid to show up every day. 

“Will, you’re going to make us all look bad working so hard,” Sally, one of the employees, teases. “Boss lady will just have you come in instead of us. Imagine how much will go back into her pocket with that move.” She’s one the the few here that he finds he can comfortably talk and work with. For one, she doesn’t fawn over him or try to flirt, and secondly she adores the animals just as much as he does, though her preference is for the cats. 

“Nancy would keep you on, Sally. The cats know you best.” 

The compliment makes her smile. Small talk has become easier with strangers, but it’s still something Will has to make an effort with. Thankfully, most of the time he’s left to his own devices, often grooming, playing or spending most of his hours walking the dogs. A not-so-subtle plan he came up with was to wear one of the animal shelter’s t-shirts as an advertisement as he walked the showiest dogs of the kennels. More than a few times, prospective owners had trailed him back when he had done this. 

Nancy had hugged him with glee at seeing the upturn in adoption rates for the dogs. It was decidedly uncomfortable for Will, who simply stood there, though Nancy didn’t seem to care. 

“Will, you’re the best thing that’s happened to this place! We’ve managed to almost triple our numbers!” Nancy laughs as she lets go of him to do a little shimmy of excitement. He can’t help but smile with her. Never before has he meant such a group of people so dedicated to the animals in their care. He’s content to stay here as long as they possibly can. 

He’s walking home when he catches John unlocking his bike. Will’s in a good mood - three of the dogs have been adopted - so for once his reticence about social interaction is low enough to feel positively chatty. 

“John! Heading home?” Will calls, waving so John can locate his voice. 

A smile creases the corners of John’s eyes - he’s truly happy to see him, and it takes Will slightly aback. Even before he and Hannibal changed lives the only ones he could say had ever looked that pleased to see Will were his dogs. The thought makes his chest ache again. It’s a comfort that John too asks very little from him, just attention and his being there.

“I am. I didn’t know you worked so close to the clinic.” 

He gets the bike unchained and wheels it alongside as they stroll homewards. 

“I volunteer at the animal shelter twenty minutes down the road.” 

“Glad they don’t have to pay you for all your efforts, right?” John teases. Will nods, and again is surprised at how talking with him isn’t draining. Perhaps if they were together all day, but this time walking home is soothing rather than tiring.

They continue on in companionable silence the wheels on the bike ticking away. 

It’s upon entering the foyer though that the silence is broken by a dizzyingly fast concert of violin from upstairs and harpsichord from downstairs. Will looks to John to find him returning the puzzled look. It isn’t until Sherlock breaks off in the middle of one piece to start madly playing another that John laughs out loud so much that he bends over at one point, hands on knees, gasping for air. It takes him a minute to be able to properly breathe and through giggles he relays, “They’re having a musical duel,” before dissolving into more gales of laughter. 

Will can only shake his head. He should have known Hannibal would find some way to preoccupy himself, and if that means challenging the resident detective, then so be it. No doubt these two with their pride have been at it all afternoon.

“John, is that you?” Mrs. Hudson's voice calls from down the hall. John manages to swallow the giggles down enough to answer back.

“Yes Mrs. Hudson! Will and I just got home.”

“Hello Will, a good day at the animal shelter I hope?” she politely asks, not waiting for an answer before turning on John with pleading eyes. “John, be a dear and get Sherlock to drink something. Those two have been playing since you both left this morning! I brought his tea up, but he ignored it and me, playing like a madman!” 

John hugs the old woman, giving her a reassuring smile that she answers weakly. 

“Of course Mrs. Hudson, I’ll talk to him. Will, do you think you can convince Hannibal to call it a truce?”

“For now,” he answers honestly. 

“Good, long enough to make sure Sherlock doesn’t give out from lack of food or water.” Off he goes with Mrs. Hudson in tow. Will strides over to their own door and upon opening it is greeted with Hannibal’s back.

“Antagonizing our neighbors already, husband?”

“Only seeing how well practiced he is. He’s managed to keep up with me all day.” 

Will rests his hands on Hannibal’s shoulders kneading deeply into the muscles. At once, his husband relinquishes the keys to lean back into Will’s touch with a sigh. Will kisses the part in Hannibal’s hair. 

“Thank you, Hannibal.” 

“Of course, teacup, anything for you.” 

\--

Hannibal, in the meanwhile, when not going out to be a professional pianist (excellent fake papers guarantee him a sterling reputation), spends his time drawing. Often he goes to the park to draw the people who sit still long enough to be sketched out. A young girl living at one of the homeless shelters who watched over Hannibal’s shoulder one day as he drew asks to have him do a portrait of her. He obliges her, for it keeps him in practice, and it’s pleasing to see her so delighted at being drawn.

The next time he’s in the park, she is back with another woman and a middle-aged man (her parents, he’s informed), and from that time on he does a brisk trade. Portraits for shortcuts, secrets, and little quirks of London. A young man who catches Hannibal when he is out with Will shopping for groceries hands them two intricate and colorful hemp bracelets. Hannibal thanks him before slipping his on, Will doing the same, unquestioning of where this new friend has come from.

This quiet life isn’t what Hannibal had planned for them, but nor had he ever paused to think of how deeply he would fall for Will. Will had stumbled his way close to Hannibal’s heart before he realized the depth of what he felt. When losing his sanity, Will had drawn him in and unknowingly tied their fates together. 

What surprises Hannibal is the contentment he finds in their day-to-day life. He thought he would go out of his head no longer able to hunt or mold new killers. However, that has not come to pass. The cravings still call, but he’s learned to quiet them by thinking of Will. The want to nudge others in the direction of killing - show them the beauty in death - has been snuffed out. It seems there will be no one after his husband. There is peace in that knowledge. 

Although their detective is quickly becoming a much-admired plaything. Certainly he is never bored with that man around.

\--

It is Sherlock who approaches first.

Hannibal is in the tiny kitchen clearing away the remains of breakfast. He makes a mental note to drop off the leftovers with John. From the constant smell of greasy, fried food, those two rarely eat anything homemade. A wonder neither of them has grown fat off their terrible diet. Perhaps he’ll begin the persuasion with something sweet. Mrs. Hudson had giggled to him that Sherlock and John both have such a sweet tooth that she makes sure to always be stocked with chocolates and the sort. She is a good roundabout way for information, but Hannibal knows she’s just as talkative to others as to him. 

Two knocks on the door pull him from his thoughts. Wiping his hands off, he goes to answer it, finding Sherlock on the other side. He’s made an effort, that much is clear from the fact that he’s wearing a crisp white button-down shirt with black dress pants. Even his curly hair seems to have had a brush go through it. 

“Hello Sherlock, what has brought the surprise visit?” Hannibal asks, throwing the dish towel onto his shoulder. Sherlock, who looks like he’s struggling to give off a friendly neighbor act, drops it at once. It suits him best to be up-front. 

“I wanted to know if you’d come with me on a tour through the city. I need to check with my network and we can talk. Alone.” 

Hannibal nods; they’ve been wondering when the detective would get a move on with sussing them out. Will had estimated two or three days only because of John. He seems to keep Sherlock on a leash, as much as the man will allow for it anyways. 

“Of course, if you’ll give me a moment to finish the dishes.” 

Sherlock nods, allowing himself to be ushered inside. He leaves the detective to decipher their decorating taste. Really it’s quite the gift he has. It’s so at odds with Will’s ability to empathize. Both vulnerable in their own way. Sherlock, because he cannot assume others’ point of view, so rooted in his own thoughts. Rigidity to the point of inflexibility, while Will’s identity is subsumed by the crimes and psychoses of his killers. 

Once upon a time Hannibal would have gone looking for Sherlock’s weakest point - _John_ \- but not now, not after Will. He must content himself to simply observe. 

It’s not five minutes later that he’s done and ready to leave. They end up surprising Mrs. Hudson, who is cleaning the foyer. Sherlock drops a kiss on the stunned woman’s forehead at seeing the two of them together before he’s sidling past. Hannibal nods and murmurs, “Good morning” before they are outside and down the steps. 

“From her expression I can assume you are not usually social?” 

He can’t resist inquiring, receiving the expected snort. 

“There are few people worth speaking to, much less being around. They think too loudly - like Anderson.” 

“You seem to tolerate John, dare I say, enjoy his company.” 

This earns him a sharp green glance from the detective. 

“John is another matter. He puts up with me better than most. Also, while his thoughts are of the normal variety, they are not too distracting most of the time. What of you and Will? You two seem to do much more than tolerate one another, but that’s a recent development, clear to see from how careful you act. Tell me, is he your husband in name only?” 

They stop at the corner of a street where a man without his left eye sits panhandling. Hannibal waits as Sherlock drops a few coins in, prompting the man to speak up.

“The dog walker came through six times,” he states, gaze never leaving a point across the street. Sherlock nods and beckons Hannibal to continue their walk. It’s a moment before he understands the homeless man is reporting on their movements. 

“A clever system.”

“It is, and so is your marriage.” 

Hannibal chuckles, of course Sherlock wouldn’t give up that easily. 

“Will and I’s marriage was done for more reasons than love. We are bonded by more than a destructive God.” 

They skirt a nanny holding three leashes attached to young kids while pushing a stroller. The young thing looks worn down by her overflow of children. 

“Will and I have consummated our marriage, and you may see our license if it would ease your mind,” he offers. Sherlock waves away his words, brows furrowed. 

“No, no, you both are too smart to fake a license, and you both carry the smell of copulation. No-” sharp sea-green eyes find his, “there’s something more to you both, but how to reveal it?” 

\---

Like most mornings, Hannibal is awake before Will, obvious by the fact clothes have been set out for him with the smell of breakfast permeating the apartment. Will can’t help but smile when he sees he’s been given the outfit of a dark green flannel, a blue tanktop for underneath, and his favorite pair of jeans. A not-so-subtle hint his husband is feeling possessive from John’s small crush.

He’s quiet coming from the bedroom, but still Hannibal looks up when he enters their tiny kitchen. He wonders when he will convince Mrs. Hudson to let him do remodeling to it. Likely she can be won over by the idea that it will raise the value of the overall building to have a new kitchen paid for by her own renters. For now though, the smallness gives him that much more of an advantage, pressing Hannibal against the counter to nuzzle his chin against the side of his neck. Hannibal tilts his head to the side to let Will have an easier time of it. 

“Should I warn John away from our apartment until your jealousy wears off?” Will murmurs, now nuzzling his husband’s hair still without its usual pomade. A hum is the only response as Hannibal removes a perfectly cooked pancake and pours the batter for another. He never misses a chance to be sarcastic unless - “Hannibal, if John’s crush bothers you that much, tell me. I’d rather not have us going back to trying to kill each other.” 

“I do not feel jealous of John. People find you attractive and I would become a very miserable man to try and keep you all to myself. Rather -” he flips the pancake before turning in Will’s arms to kiss him, “ I am terrified John will remind you of the life I took. You will want to be changed this time and your reckoning fulfilled.” 

“Hannibal - ”

“You have already broken the mold I set you in once.” The smile on Hannibal’s face is more of a grimace. “Don’t believe you cannot break with this one if it meant a better life. Anyhow, I have packed you and John breakfast and lunch both. Catch him before he leaves. I haven’t heard him open any cupboards this morning; he’ll be hungry.” 

Will wants to argue, to protest that he’s already shown they can’t live without one another, but Hannibal is gently pushing Will back so that he can rescue the crispy pancake for himself. No matter: he _will_ show him that he’s wrong. 

\--

Despite the hour walk in store to the shelter, Will waits by the stairs to leave with John. The first day he does this, John’s certain something’s happened when he spots him. Why else would he be waiting when he’s usually off to wherever by this time?

“Are you alright ,Will? Has something happened?” he asks, hurrying down the steps wondering if he should call for Sherlock. Will, shaking his head, delays the impulse and him by slipping a strap from his shoulder and holding out a lunch bag, making the thought disappear completely. Unsure, John takes it, peeking in to see a perfectly arranged pile of plastic containers. 

“Uh, did you make lunch for me, Will? Or did Hannibal?” John inquires, closing the bag and slipping the strap onto his own shoulder, noting that Will himself is carrying a similar lunch bag, feeling both gracious and a bit uncomfortable. Usually in the mornings he doesn’t make himself anything as their fridge is barely stocked to feed them for a day, so the gesture is certainly appreciated. Granted, he doesn’t have a clue why Hannibal would make him meals. 

Will rubs his fingers over his mouth and chin, stubble rasping, and shakes his head, hiding his smile behind his hand. He’s endearing without even trying.

“Hannibal, for the most part. I just put the food in the bags. He said you and Sherlock won’t live much longer with the takeout food you eat now.” 

John looks down at himself, wondering if this is a neighborly way to hint he’s getting fat. 

“John.” He looks back up to Will who’s grinning at him, and dear God his heart is picking up the pace at that expression, “You look good. Hannibal’s just being himself. He likes to feed other people.” 

John certainly does not warm at being told he looks good by Will. Not at all. 

He waits until they get to the clinic to tell Will he can come inside the apartment instead of skulking around in the hallway. This earns him a small smile and a nod.

\--

John is just moving about in his room, the bed springs groaning as he tries to sleep a little longer, when a knock rings out on their front door. Sherlock answers, knowing who it is. John had told him last night about inviting Will inside in the mornings, while in the next breath warning him not to be too much of a prig if possible.

“You want to befriend Will.”

John crosses his arms over his chest, already defensive. Protective of Will. It makes him bristle. 

“Yes, I would like some new friends. People I can talk with who aren’t policemen or government drones or clients. Please play nice for me, Sherlock.” 

He starts to give a snappy report, but today can’t find the heart for rudeness, not this time. Instead he nods and how relieved John is. 

Now it’s just putting his promise into action.

“Good morning, Sherlock,” Will offers with a nod. Sherlock looks him over - he’s a relatively attractive man, John did well in picking him - before stepping back to let him in. “Hannibal sends up breakfast,” he continues, digging into his lunch pack for a large container, which turns out to hold crepes topped with whipped cream. 

“Thank you.” 

He manages, turning, to put the container on the counter, to find John standing beside it, looking pleased. However, it is not Sherlock himself he is looking so fondly at, but Will - damnable Will, with his thick glasses, brown curls, and flickering smile. There’s no denying the jealousy that bites at the display of fondness for this stranger.

“John, isn’t it time for you to shower? You know if you don’t brush your teeth you’re going to try not to offend people with your awful morning breath all day.” 

This comment earns him a frown. He’s being a petulant child, but more than his need to act like a grown man is the wish to get John away from Will just for a few minutes. 

“Thank you for that insult, Sherlock -” John looks back to Will - always back to him - “Do you mind if I take ten minutes? I just need to hop in the shower, as Sherlock so nicely pointed out, and then I’ll be ready.” 

Will shakes his head, and John is off to the bathroom.

At once, Sherlock drops the plastic container with a clatter before turning back to the intruder in his home. Will, for his part, doesn’t seem cowed at all more, as if he’s waiting to see what Sherlock will do next. They truly are like wolves, patiently watching his every move. It seems, just like Hannibal, Will needs a prod. 

“The dogs are your children, aren’t they?” 

The statement couldn’t have been better chosen. The gaze leveled at him is one of warning. Really an easy enough guess for anyone who bothered to use their eyes. But, then again, he does live amongst so many dull people who can barely see an inch in front of their faces.

“Obvious really, with how much of your time and money you spend there. How many children have you lost? I dare say more than one - likely two or three. No one ever gives that much without significant losses in their life.” 

Will’s jaw clenches, despite working to maintain an unaffected manner. Unlike his husband, he does not have the practice of being dead by the eyes. Emotions, even love, are still coming to light for Hannibal. However, even now Will has feeble defenses to such attacks. How easy he must have been to manipulate. 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Sherlock. I’d be careful if I were you.” 

Caution has never come naturally to Sherlock. The circumstances flit before his eyes. 

“It was someone close - yes.” A flick of his eyes dismisses homicide by extended relatives. Too socially isolated and detached for that, “But only recently - they found a way to get close, they had constant contact with you - therapy is the easiest answer. But who would -” 

Sherlock’s gaze snaps to Will. The man’s eyes have become deadened pools.

“If you value John’s life, you won’t say that name.” 

The word burns his mouth: if Will had threatened his own life Sherlock would have spoken, daring his wrath, but never will he gamble with John’s life.

It’s with timing that would be comedic if not for the death threat that John strides into the room, looking expectantly to Will. 

“Ready to go?” 

Will’s eyes leave Sherlock’s to find John’s.

“Yes.” John finds nothing amiss in his friend’s sudden curtness; simply smiles and takes the second lunch pack that is held out to him. 

“I’ll see you this evening Sherlock,” he says over his shoulder as they leave. 

Sherlock waits until they’ve left the building completely before locating his gun. Mrs. Hudson and John will reprimand him with much anger for doing this a second time, but he needs the violence of the gun on the walls, otherwise John will find himself one less friend. 

\---

Life falls into a pleasant routine for Will. Up in the early mornings to pack breakfast and lunch with Hannibal, out the door and up the stairs to wait for John (Sherlock always in the living room keeping watch), before they are off to work. While some might find this new uneventful life monstrously boring, Will is grateful to have found his niche. The animal shelters - he’s branched out into three more around town, there’s so little left to do in his first - are a source of pride and fulfillment for him. He’s always been a man with simple tastes (before Hannibal came in and twisted them up), and it is back to these he reverts. 

It’s after three months of their unassuming lives that the quiet begins to break apart. The start is when John meets Will outside the doors to the clinic, bike nowhere to be seen. 

“Hello John, staying late?” he inquires, knowing as he asks that no, John is not, with how his expression is agitated.

John fidgets, and it’s strange to see what was once his own habit in someone else. John sighs, smoothing a hand over his hair, before looking Will in the eye. 

“Come inside, Will?” 

He nods, wondering if Sherlock has already cracked the code of their past lives. It would be the perfect way to keep John away from him permanently. The angry glares and cold shoulder from Sherlock any time they are together tells him loud and clear that the detective would have no issue telling John if it meant Will was out of their lives.

They walk through the lobby where the secretary is packing up. She nods to John and gives a warm smile to Will. He ignores the look; the attention is a hassle most of the time. It isn’t until they’re in John’s office, Will leaning against the exam bed and John nervously shifting from foot to foot, that he blurts out: 

“I know you and Hannibal can take care of yourselves Will, but - well Sherlock and I are on a case right now that’s - for lack of better wording, _dangerous_.” 

Will blinks, and before he can respond John raises his hand. “I know, I know you’ll think I’m being overdramatic, but Will, this man is not someone who should be messed with, he’s ruthless. I don’t want you or your husband hurt because of us. He’ll likely be sending men around the flat soon if he hasn’t already. He’s done it before.” 

He’s touched by the fact John cares enough to inform him despite Sherlock’s continued and obvious suspicion of them. By now, it’s clear that John has stopped listening to Sherlock at all, even teasing Will occasionally about how they’ve become the detective’s new experiments. He doesn’t know how correct he is about that. 

“Thank you, John.” 

His gaze startles from the window to Will’s face, shocked to be thanked for such news. It's startling to see how grape-purple bruises of sleeplessness stand out in his shock. This news has weighed on John far more than Will noticed. 

“Hannibal and I will be careful, but we won’t stop living just because of a case. If these men should come for us or you and Sherlock, we’ll be prepared.” 

However, it’s clear that these words have brought his friend no peace of mind. This isn’t what he was hoping to hear. Will’s never been good with words in the first place, so instead of trying to fumble through some false reassurance neither of them will believe, he takes the two steps necessary to hug John. Physical affection with anyone but Hannibal is uncomfortable, but he sucks it up, because this isn’t about him. John returns the hug - it’s only seconds - that he holds Will tight, chin hooked over his shoulder. A tightened bow, given slack before they’re moving apart to an appropriate distance. It makes Will ache to see, to understand not just as an empath, but as a man devoid so long of physical affection himself, how needing of it John is. 

They leave the office in silence, quiet all the way home and it isn’t until John starts up the stairs that Will says his name. He turns, brows raised, and Will is on the first step, awkwardly winding an arm around John’s waist, his head at this level against John’s chest. It’s only a moment before he’s stepping back down - a ruffle to his hair as he does so - before he smiles and goes to greet Hannibal in their own apartment.

“You’ve given John what he’s been craving,” Hannibal states, opening his arms to Will. Unhelpfully, a smile tugs at his mouth when he feels Hannibal nuzzle his curls, scenting him. He burrows into his husband’s arms, resting his chin on his shoulder. A mimic of an earlier embrace, but here it is Will who relaxes.

“Should I assume being affectionate with John makes you aroused?”

“Shut up, snake.” 

“Of course, teacup.” 

\---

It attests to the genius of this ruthless man that even with Sherlock, John, Hannibal, and Will himself on high alert for anything unusual, they do not see the snare drawing ever tighter around them until it is too late.

The kidnappers come for him and Hannibal when they are least likely to make a scene. They wait until Sherlock and John are out on another more urgent case - a serial killer-turned-butcher - that will keep them away for just long enough. A smart move all around. 

He and Hannibal are asleep early that night, Hannibal exhausted from the stubborn head cold he caught a day ago. He’s sedated with cold medicine, and Will is too slow by the time the four goons have gotten into their apartment and into their bedroom and pounced. Before Will can do more than grunt in surprise and flail, their assailants have them on their stomachs, hands roughly pulled behind their backs, gags tied around their mouths. 

With ease, they are situated into a fireman's carry on their captors’ shoulders, hauled out into the hallway to find a whimpering Mrs. Hudson bound in the same fashion. She catches his gaze, asking with her tearful eyes if he has a plan to miraculously help them escape. Will looks away as he is put on his feet. Let her think him helpless. The hard, cold muzzle of a gun jabs at his lower back, prodding him to walk out the foyer to the unremarkable car waiting at the curb. 

Hannibal is potato-sacked into the car, falling against Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder, still unconscious despite the jostling. At once, their ankles are tied together, shoes taken, and every pocket turned inside out. Will averts his eyes when the passenger, a sandy-haired woman, rips open Mrs. Hudson’s nightgown to turn out her bra. The dear woman yelps and tries to turn away, but a sharp jab of fingers to her stomach makes her go still. 

“Old bint had a pocket knife in her bra.” 

He can’t help but be impressed. Clearly she isn’t the frail biddy he had first taken her to be. A glance shows that Sandy Hair at least had the decency to cover her back up. Mrs. Hudson is resting her cheek lightly on top of Hannibal’s head, pillowed as his face is on her shoulder. Will’s glad that she’s still calm. He turns back to the window to watch the city pass by as the tires hiss over the wet pavement. The drizzle makes any light fuzzy and out of focus - a dream state of sorts, and here he thought he’d left that struggle behind him. 

The chance is miniscule that they will come out alive by the end of this. Whoever is kidnapping them clearly doesn’t mind if they know the way or can identify their henchmen. Will hopes the medicine wears off Hannibal soon. There’s no point in even trying to escape without him. 

It’s late the next evening when they finally reach their destination. Hannibal wakes up near the morning when they stop at a rest area to use the bathroom. He may have been groggy, but that didn’t stop the cold calculation in his eyes. Will watches as his husband’s gaze falls on Mrs. Hudson’s rumpled, half torn-open blouse - sees the way his mouth thins to a line. Torture, manipulation and outright brutality Hannibal doesn’t mind - but this - _this_ is unspeakably rude, leaving a defenseless woman in this state of half-undress. Either take everything off to complete the debasing, or put the clothes back so as to be taken away piecemeal. This half-dressed part is just sloppy and speaks of low class. 

Once at their destination, they are again carried in. Apparently they’re such important cargo they aren’t even allowed to use their legs. The building is a little cafe - the owners either on vacation or dead. 

It’s a rather cozy, comfortable place to die in, rather than the warehouse Will had assumed they would be taken to. This will be close quarters for any fighting.

“Boys, go ahead and untie their feet and hands. Keep the dear lady tied though, but do knock her out. She whimpers too much,” a slight man drily commands as he walks out of the backroom, a cream cheese strudel half eaten in his hand. At the sight of them he looks vaguely surprised, as if he didn’t realize there was going to be so many people, throwing the strudel over his shoulder before advancing upon them.

Mrs. Hudson’s sobbing is cut off when one of the henchmen hits her temple.

“Why _helloo_ gentlemen I don’t believe we’ve met. I’d certainly remember faces like yours.” 

For how much trouble they are in, Hannibal still preens at the compliment. Will groans inwardly at his husband’s reaction. The man’s brown eyes glitter as he appraises them, tapping his fingers against his mouth.

“You - ” he points at Hannibal, “must be - Hannibal? And _you’re_ Will.” 

A pleased grin breaks out over his face, as if Will is just the person he wants to see. He moves to stand before his knees, fingertips barely needing to touch Will’s chin for him to tip his head up and back. The man’s eyes roaming over his face feels like he’s caressing Will. It’s decidedly intimate and discomforting, but better by far than how most abductors have treated him in the past.

“My, my, Hannibal, who did you have to kill to impress this one?” he asks, still grinning like a jack o’ lantern - of course he would know - pulling scissors from his suit pocket to cut the gag off, the metal blades chilled against his cheek. “Sorry about that darling, but begging and screaming does get _soo_ boring.” 

He moves to Hannibal next, doing the same inspection before relieving him of the gag.

“You would be surprised at how many I had to kill before Will noticed my advances. If I may ask, since you know our names, who are you?”

“For asking so nicely, yes you may. It’s Jim Moriarty. You may have heard Sherlock muttering about me.” 

Hannibal gives a regretful smile.

“I’m afraid our Sherlock keeps his lips sealed, but it’s been a pleasure meeting you, Jim Moriarty.” 

Moriarty raises an eyebrow before his gaze goes to the bay window, all of them looking as well, to see Sherlock and John striding towards the building, guns drawn.

“So it has been, Hannibal.” he murmurs. A flick of his fingers has the henchmen moving to take up their positions by the entrance. The two goonies waiting at either side of the door surprise John and Sherlock. John manages one good punch before being rewarded with two to the solar plexus, knocking the breath out of him enough to be disarmed and tied up. Sherlock doesn’t bother to fight, but lets himself be trussed up in a similar manner.

At once, John’s eyes are on them, jaw clenched. Mrs. Hudson is still unconscious and gagged, her clothes disheveled. Sherlock doesn’t spare them a glance, his attention held completely by Moriarty.

“You know, if you had arrived just two minutes later Sherlock, I would have taken them with me.”

“A pity,” Sherlock scoffs.

“Well, I couldn’t take just Will could I? Even I’m not so _stupid_ as to goad our dear Hannibal in that fashion, and your precious Mrs. Hudson is all you care about - she was a no-brainer. So in the end I decided if I can’t have them, no one can!” 

A snap of the fingers, and the two armed goons move to Will and Hannibal. Moriarty, a manic grin on his face, strides out of the room waving over his shoulder. “Do enjoy the show boys - it’ll likely be your last.”

Will catches Hannibal’s eye, who gives the smallest of nods. They have no choice. Either die by Moriarty’s men, or expose themselves and wait for the inevitable bloodbath. There’s no hope to Sherlock or John from realizing what they are after this desperate move. They’ve been good for this long, but Will can’t lie to himself any longer. He never forgot the beautiful high of killing.

He launches himself from the couch, gasping at the sting of a bullet through his chest - numbness seconds later - before he and the gunman crash to the floor. Hannibal takes down the other two, judging by their exclamations and accompanying shots. Will doesn’t let himself think, just sinks his teeth into the man’s lip and tears, spitting and sinking his teeth again into his cheek. The man screams a high, airy screech as the gun goes off again. In the same moment Will rips away another section of cheek, he breaks the man’s fingers, drawing back long enough to send a punch to his throat. It sends his assailant thrashing and clutching at his collapsed trachea.

There’s no time to waste: he’s off the man, but before he can do more then turn to face the second man he’s being tackled to the floor. His head hits the linoleum with a _crack_. Hands around his throat and Will can’t think but to grasp the man’s face, jabbing his thumbs into the man’s eyes. Another quavering scream as Will feels the fragile eyeballs squish beneath his fingers. A bump to his calf has him pushing the now-blinded man away to see Hannibal has pushed one of the guns to him.

It doesn’t require any hesitation to pull the trigger twice. Only after Will is left panting in the aftermath’s silence does he look to John and Sherlock. Shock has made John’s eyes as big as dinner plates, and it’s clear his entire way of seeing them has been changed. Sherlock, meanwhile, has his eyes narrowed, the space between his eyebrows wrinkled. Will figures they’ve got seconds before he catches on.

Hannibal doesn’t waste a moment before he’s on his feet, moving towards their still-unconscious landlady.

“Don’t touch her!” John hollers, struggling up onto his knees. Hannibal pauses.

“I will not hurt her John - or would you rather Will untie her?” 

He doesn’t even look at Will before he shakes his head. Hannibal turns back and unties her, checking her pulse as he does so. Will helps Sherlock with his bindings, retreating to Hannibal’s side when finished. At once, John retrieves the guns, and though he doesn’t take aim, the way he doesn’t holster them makes clear his thoughts.

“Put your gun away, John. After what you’ve just seen, it’s useless.” Sherlock snaps, still eyeing them both.

“I presume you will be arresting us now?” Hannibal asks, casual as can be.

“I don’t really see the point,” Sherlock says as he dusts off his coat and adjusts his scarf. “You two would escape prison somehow, and I doubt you would leave three witnesses alive for long however much we pledged our silences.” 

Will leans into Hannibal’s side, hip pressed to his. They don’t have to agree aloud for it to be true. He forces himself to find detachment at the way John’s jaw tightens at the display of closeness between them.

“Sherlock! They just killed three men! Self-defense can only be stretched so far and I don’t think gouging a man’s eyes out qualifies!” John argues.

It is a startling ache to discover that he wants John to still see him as ordinary, dog-loving Will - not as if he’ll kill John at a moment’s notice. Of course, Will can’t say that without some hypocrisy on his part. In the beginning of their friendship, he wouldn’t have had an issue with killing either of them to keep himself and Hannibal safe. However, he’s more conflicted about doing so now. John is an easy companion to be with, pleased to do nothing more with Will then have a few beers and talk. No ulterior motives or mind games.

Of course, he makes John sound simple-minded with that description. Rather, he’s a normal man amongst unstable ones. Men who can twist their minds into unnatural shapes. Many label it genius, while few rightly call it madness. John is very lucky to escape the hellish nightmare they can be molded into with the right touch.

“They would escape before they ever saw death row,” Sherlock answers, “Besides, they seem to have managed to make an ally out of Moriarty.” 

It is that last piece that Will can tell sets John decidedly against them. Stupid and futile as it is, Will wants to protest that there had been no choice in the matter. It wasn’t as if Moriarty had asked, and they had happily agreed.

“So what will you be telling the police, hm? How can we possibly pass off a man’s gouged-out eyeballs?” John huffs, raking his fingers through his hair. It will soon be silver at this rate, Will absently thinks. Sherlock strides over to the corpses, looking over each one in turn.

“We will tell them one of Moriaty’s men went rogue and tried to kill us all. The owners’ families will soon notice their disappearance anyways and this place will be crawling.”

\--

Of course the usual questioning happens when Lestrade, Anderson, and the others show up at the crime scene. Will, having washed his mouth and face off, plays the perfect tearful victim. He even manages to make Mrs. Hudson (now awake) comfort him.

John, who is sitting beside Sherlock in one of the ambulances, is mute with fury. The paramedics patching them up mistake his trembling for shock, but Sherlock knows differently. Before he can order them away, Lestrade is demanding to know what happened and why hadn’t they called the police before they decided to go galloping off? Really, he _still_ thinks his force is a match for Moriarty.

“Craig -”

“Greg -” Lestrade huffs.

“Yes whatever - Moriarty has shown he can toy with all of England, so your little police boys are nothing against him. Now, if you’ll excuse me, John and I are in shock. See the blankets Greg? That means something terrible happened to us. Go away.” 

Greg snorts in disbelief, but walks away, seeing there’s no use pushing. It attests to John’s complete focus on Will and the medics swarming him when Sherlock throws half his blanket over John’s shoulders so they can sit against each other. He even pushes aside John’s blanket to hold his hand, receiving a tight squeeze in response.

“How could he lie to me like that Sherlock? I never knew. This is just like -” John swallows, “- Mary all over again.” Sherlock doesn’t answer, because this situation is like hers but for the fact neither of them are ashamed of their past as killers. Rather Will and Hannibal chose to save them but expose who they are instead of just killing them all. There is no way he and John would have survived if they had decided differently.

“Sherlock?” 

Both of John’s hands are gripping his, making Sherlock focus. He’s taken aback by the panic in John’s eyes. “They’re going to kill us aren’t they? Now that we know?” Never has he been this frightened.

He shakes his head, and, in a gesture of further unusual affection, brushes John’s hair back. The move startles him.

“No, I think much like Mary Will loves you too much to kill you. Hannibal would if it were not for his husband. We are safe because of our silence and Will’s affection for you John.”

\---

It’s decidedly odd to walk to the shelter and home alone now. Will has gotten so used to John’s presence that without him the whole thing feels off. However, he doesn’t approach the other man, nor does John seek him out. Once again, his world is narrowed down to his dogs and Hannibal.

By this point, Will has his own keys to the shelter and arrives before any of the employees to scour down the entire place twice a week. He is also the last to leave, cleaning up after both the visitors and the animals again. Sally and Nancy are so shocked by this sudden step up in his time already spent there that they both corner Will asking if something is happening with Hannibal: if anything serious is going on, they will help him. 

Will gives a grimace of a smile as he brushes down a long-haired cat who has become a ragdoll in his lap.

“Nothing’s wrong with Hannibal, he’s just working more so I’m alone in the apartment more often.” 

Sally and Nancy give sympathetic nods.

“You can always come around if you get lonely, Will,” Sally offers, to which he nods, staying quiet to show he’s not particularly interested in more conversation. He can almost hear Nancy wanting to offer him a safe house, but Sally’s politely but firmly shooing her away. Thank God for her.

\--

Sherlock, meanwhile, has no such avoidance of Hannibal. 

Currently it’s five in the morning - their puffs of breath hanging in the air - as they walk to a favorite cafe of Hannibal’s for a light breakfast. Often Sherlock chooses their meeting places, but today Hannibal had insisted. The coffee is smooth and burns his tongue ,but Sherlock drinks it nonetheless. He needs his mind to be at peak efficiency when it comes to talking to Hannibal.

“It is not so enjoyable now to have what you want, is it, Sherlock?” Hannibal asks, as he carefully butters his pancakes, making sure to cover every inch. 

“What do you mean by that?” 

Hannibal cuts his pancake into neat small squares. 

“Only that you’ve got my husband away from John and all he does is brood over him. I’d find it quite upsetting to know someone I loved pine for another.” 

He must look away, a knot of tension forming in his jaw. Hannibal has an ungodly accuracy for touching upon an open nerve. He’s had more than enough practice with Will. 

“John feels betrayed by your _husband_. I’d say he’s rather more upset about how he befriended a killer than losing him.” 

It’s unlike himself to be so easily riled, but Sherlock can’t help it. The caffeine and anger sparking in his blood has his hackles up. A knowing smile creeps across Hannibal’s mouth. 

“It’s all the more advantage, Sherlock. Take his offered affection, keep him from hardening his heart anymore. He’s already suffered one loss of love, correct?” Hannibal asks, before taking a bite of his breakfast. 

Sherlock wants to punch the man. He’s right. John has been seeking more affection. Small, but noticeable ways.But this isn’t about his feelings for John: it’s Hannibal and the befuddling reason of why a predator such as himself would ever stop.

“I’m less interested in John right now and more about you.” 

“You’ve made that abundantly clear since we meet.”

“You could have gone on for years. ” There’s no point now but to be direct. “You did. For years you got away with murder.” He rakes his fingers through his hair as if to tear it out in frustration. “Why, _why_ would you let yourself be caught? You clipped your wings for what? Eternal boredom?”

Hannibal smiles, “It was never about boredom, Sherlock. My reason is the same as why you will never risk John’s life.” 

Heat burns Sherlock’s face and neck. 

“You are a skilled predator. Love has nothing to do with your choice.”

“It is a powerful motivator. You know that to be true.” 

\---

To say Will is shocked when he looks up to see John in the doorway to the kennels would be a lie. Sherlock had forewarned this very morning that John would talk with him at some point in time. Just, Will had not thought it would be in the same day. 

The frigid morning air of winter had swept into the foyer when Sherlock came in, the cloying smell of cigarette smoke clinging to him. Will is just locking the apartment door when he enters. He’s become used to the man’s irregular pattern of showing up. 

“Will.” Sherlock’s had nothing to do with him since the kidnapping. What could he have to say to him? “John will come talk to you soon.” 

Will blinks.

“You convinced him to do so.” 

Sherlock flaps in his hand in a dismissive manner, already heading for the stairs. 

“It’s for his sake. Don’t expect this to be a favor towards your friendship.” 

Of course not. Sherlock wants his friend back, is all.

“Tell me, were you always like - _that_?” John asks, glancing up at him from his place kneeling in front of one of the dog’s cages. It’s after closing, so there are no other employees or volunteers to overhear their conversation. Will can’t help the bitter curl of a smile. 

“Like a killer, John?” 

He doesn’t get a reply, John simply waiting to hear his defense. Old habits die hard, and Will begins pacing, checking the dogs’ food and water for lack of anything else to do. The feeling of John’s eyes never leaves him. 

“No...no,” Will murmurs, back turned to him, “Before Hannibal - before my brain caught fire I was a normal man trudging through life, always waiting to be alone with my dogs.” 

God, this hurts. 

“Sounds lonely, Will,” he replies, sounding rather more sympathetic than he likely means to. 

“Careful there, John. Your forgiveness is showing.” 

John’s hand on his shoulder startles Will into turning to face him. 

“Why him? Why this life of running? Why do you kill?” 

“Hannibal was the one who gave me stability. He became the only person I could turn to when my mind was unraveling. His first instinct wasn’t to shove me into a mental facility to be examined like everyone else wanted to.” 

“But he was the one helping to pull the threads,” John interjects, and how that makes Will’s heart squeeze with tenderness.

“I was already seen as unstable before Hannibal.”

“So no one would question when he started to mold you.” 

Sherlock needs to give John more credit. He catches on quick enough given half the chance. 

“Hannibal showed me what I was capable of,” Will swallows, having to look away for a moment, “But in the same breath he destroyed any chance at a life besides one with him, he took away everything I loved to strip me bare in order become his alone. But I wasn’t the only one changed by this bloody courtship, John. I’m not the complete victim here.” 

John says nothing, though his fingers tighten just a bit. 

“For what he had done, I tried to kill Hannibal. It took realizing we couldn’t live without one another, that he would tear apart any sort of normalcy I found and that I frightened him - yes,” Will chuckles at John’s confused expression, “I _terrified_ my husband, because he had come to love me in a way he hadn’t planned for. He would never be able to settle for the shadow of me in his mind palace no matter how vivid.”

“How did you get him to stop? Surely Hannibal wouldn’t let you kill only once if he wanted you to be his partner in crime.” 

“We did kill together - just the once - and it was beautiful. It was because of that I threw us over the cliff’s edge - I wanted us to end on a perfect note, but life had other plans besides death for us. Afterwards - afterwards Hannibal was too consumed by his loss of control, of the life he had so carefully built, he didn’t argue when I said no more killing. Until Moriarty, we had stuck to that, but there was no way we would have lasted long if we had let those men live.” 

“You did it to save us.” 

Will nods and it’s John this time who initiates the hug. 

“I’m surrounded by psychopaths and murderers. Who knew my life would be so bloody difficult?!” John huffs, squeezing him tight. Will wraps his arms around him.

“With a sociopath that loves you enough to want to see you happy again, even if that means associating with me.” 

John startles, leaning back just enough to look Will properly in the face. 

“But-”

“John, denial will only build up the bodies. When are you going to listen to each other?”

\--

“Without a doubt John asked why you became a killer?” Sherlock asks, as Will closes the apartment door behind him. The tread of his footsteps on the stairs had told Sherlock it was not John. Perhaps it had been too hopeful a thought John would stay estranged from this intruder.

“You knew he would.” 

He eyes Will. He underestimated this man. 

“You let Hannibal consume you.” 

Will scoffs. “I had no choice.” His tone softens in the next moment. “Hannibal brought me to love it.” 

“Fighting him the entire way to that conclusion,” Sherlock whispers.

Will nods. “But you’ve done the same for John. Hannibal and I are not the only ones who have carried bodies to our beloved. You brought him one too.” 

Sherlock looks pointedly away towards the window. It seems Hannibal has taught him well in the art of honing his words. 

 

“Did he realize your gift, Sherlock, or are you still hoping for that day?” 

“You sound like your husband, Mr. Graham. Some might say you’ve become Il Monstro in his stead.” 

“I am the Lamb’s wrath Sherlock - a monster in its own right. Does it kill you to know their words about you are true - ”

“No!” Sherlock hisses, “No - their words mean _nothing_ to me. It is John, only John’s words that have ever mattered.” 

“Afraid he sees you a murderer?” 

“Worse - an addict. Nothing more pathetic or dependent then a wasting addict. It defines me.” 

“Sherlock - how could you think that?” 

He jolts to see John standing in the doorway of their flat, Hannibal beside him. John shakes his head as he moves closer. Sherlock backs away, hands raised.

“You didn’t know me at my lowest, John, how could I expect you to love what I’ve become after the drugs? An addict who would crave it everyday if my mind were not filled with gore and death.”

“Because, you bloody fucking idiot, I love you!” John shouts. The anger dies quickly. “Because I love you, Sherlock, for what you’ve given me and how you’ve changed me from the man I was.” He takes those last few steps and grasps Sherlock’s upraised hands. “You were an addict - still are - but for adventure, for acceptance and love. All that big brain of yours - shut up I know it’s normal size - does is analyze; well, let it show you how honest I am, Sherlock. Show me you know the truth from your lies.” 

John swallows, lips trembling. 

Sherlock’s heart is galloping, a cold sweat breaking out. Heat prickles his eyeballs and he’s blinking rapidly, even as tears leak from John’s eyes. Sherlock never wants to be the reason John weeps in grief for a second time. He steps close, breath mingling with John’s, feels the tremors running through himself before pressing his mouth to John’s. A strangled laugh of a sob escapes his love before he kisses back gently. Like Sherlock is fragile, as if he deserves nothing but this sweet tenderness. 

He will never admit Will and Hannibal ever had a hand in this.

**Author's Note:**

> This story would in no way be coherent or as easy to read without my beta Z's help! Please if you like the Avengers go give her fics some love with comments and kudos http://archiveofourown.org/users/zilia. She definitely deserves them after all this slogging through my no commas. Thank you a thousand times Z!
> 
> The ending maybe a bit abrupt. I'll likely go back and change it at some point. Please feel free to leave your thoughts :)


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